


Striving for Perfection

by Elliot



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliot/pseuds/Elliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he regretted pulling the man from stone. But the angel had been trapped in the marble, and so he had taken it upon himself to free the divine creature from its prison. </p>
<p>Little did he know that it was not just the prison that was made out of stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes he regretted pulling the man from stone. But the angel had been trapped in the marble, and so he had taken it upon himself to free the divine creature from its prison.

Little did he know that it was not just the prison that was made out of stone. _  
_

_He hadn't been a sculptor by nature, dabbling more in paints and charcoals, but this block of marble had been calling to him, a siren song that had been impossible to ignore. He had run his hands across the cool surface and had felt the forms underneath; straining muscles that waited impatiently for their inevitable escape, the enigmatic and powerful being that would soon stir underneath his very human hands._

_For a moment he had been terrified. Terrified of the skill that would be required of him, skills that he wasn't sure he actually possessed. Terrified of the responsibility that the angel seemed to bestow upon him. Terrified of failing. Yet, also terrified of succeeding, because what then? What would follow if he managed to create perfection? Because that was what was hiding underneath the rough cut of the marble.  
_

And in that moment he had grabbed for the bottle, much like how he grabbed for the bottle now. The fears hadn't ended when he had finished sculpting the angel. Where the angel did not even require words for his demanding whispers in the workplace, now the angel called for the same things with a powerful, carrying voice.

_Sometimes when his vision blurred and the tools turned too heavy in his slack hands - except for the bottle, the bottle was secured in a grip that seemed glued to the glass - he could see the lips of the angel move._

_The sculpture was only just starting to take shape. He had freed a shoulder and part of a chest, and then higher up he had traced one side of a throat and almost completed the full jawline. But the face was finished. The Grecian jawline was interlude to the sharp constellation of cheekbones, nose and a more than confident gaze._

_But it was the lips that spoke to him, first in whispers, then, as he stared long enough, louder, filling the room with a rich voice. Each syllable seemed to carry into the furthest corners of the room and every word that reached his alcohol-meddled mind held a strength and conviction that was near impossible._

_And in the dreams that followed it was not just the lips of the angel that moved. Added to the words were now movements that amplified their meaning and reach, carrying out over masses of people.  
_

And he was terrified again, of failure and success. What had been dreams and phantom masses over which the angel was glorious, was now the rallying that went prior to the revolution. And the angel was more glorious than he had ever been.

He had grabbed for the bottle and failed. Maybe he was doomed to fail, because he had succeeded before and that one moment was all he was going to get out of life. He had always known himself to be a failure. It was familiar. And therefore only slightly less terrifying than succeeding.

_The figure in the marble was an angel, yes, but the angel refused to take wings. Many a night he had traced the newly freed arms and shoulders with careful examining fingers, but the mass of stone that could become magnificent wings went untouched. He had been forced to cut away the latent block and only then seemed the angel satisfied._

_In the end the angel resembled less of a winged messenger from the Heavens and more of a Greek god._

_In the end he had become Apollo._

_God of the sun._

_Yet, the marble was still cold to the touch.  
_

He had succeeded then. He had created perfection and for some unfathomable reason he had wanted to destroy it. He had wanted to grab a hammer and break the cool marble.

It was not the creation that he wanted destroyed, not the character, per se. It was the stone that he wanted to shatter.

 

If he could he would still take a hammer to Apollo.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he could he would still take a hammer to Apollo.

_In the end he had become Apollo._

_God of the sun._

_Yet, the marble was still cold to the touch._

He had succeeded then. He had created perfection and for some unfathomable reason he had wanted to destroy it. He had wanted to grab a hammer and break the cool marble.

It was not the creation that he wanted destroyed, not the character, per se. It was the stone that he wanted to shatter.

If he could he would still take a hammer to Apollo.

_There was no need for the tools anymore. They lay abandoned on the table that stood next to the statue. Finished now, the statue posed victoriously in the centre of the room. A marble flag hung from a raised hand, a powerful symbol, but he wasn't sure of what exactly. It didn't matter. Apollo had been freed now, his cause his own._

_His hands had wandered the stone in the days after, wistfully tracing the arch of the rigid neck, his thumb settling against the line of the jaw. The lips that had spoken to him many times now, eluded to appear as stationary as the rest of him, and his thumb shifted to run across them, the lips so smooth they spun the illusion of being alive and soft._

_But it was the eyes that bothered him, still cold, still hard as ever. And for a moment he wished he could witness the creature before him alive and breathing like the lips in his drunken vision, like the god in his dreams._

The ice of the eyes had never left Apollo. Here he stood upon the barricade with the same power, the same conviction, the same faith and desire, but his eyes had remained the unforgiving marble.

Those eyes, hardest to bear when turned on him. The eyes that scolded him for everything he lacked, but which he had managed to embody in the sculpture.

He had failed.

And he grabbed for the bottle.

_It was a wine-induced dream that came to him that night, the scent of the drink clinging sweet and strong around him like a cloud. And in that cloud Apollo had made the final move, had turned stone into skin under the caressing light of the late afternoon sun, had blessed the adorning blonde curls with a halo of perpetual light._

_And had thanked him._

_He had approached Apollo then, the god still enraptured in the marvel of his new mortal skin. He needed to reach for him, to brush fingers against the warm skin of his neck again, to caress his cheek like the light had done before. Apollo had accepted the touch and had covered the hand with his own._

_For once his lips had been unmoving; words unnecessary at this silent acknowledgement._

_For a moment the eyes had held the warmth of the sun._

It was punishment, he realised, his own self-induced punishment for failing.

He stayed in close proximity to Apollo and watched as he warmed others with his passion, his ideals, but never him.

There were a lot who were touched by his light, under which the poor and the workers. And the students that flocked around him like planets, soaking up Apollo's words like they were the rays of sunlight they so desperately craved.

And he too, orbited around Apollo.

The sun should have scalded him, burned him –, blinded him. And maybe he was blind. And maybe he had been burned, but not by heat. Never by heat.

_The dream was mercilessly crushed when he came to. Apollo noticed. Apollo watched._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for the wait. School and personal life have been rather demanding.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the read and stay tuned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all it had needed were the words of Apollo

The sun should have scalded him, burned him –, blinded him. And maybe he was blind. And maybe he had been burned, but not by heat. Never by heat.

 

_The dream was mercilessly crushed when he came to. Apollo noticed. Apollo watched._

_It was the first time Apollo's eyes had turned upon him. The first time they had been accusing. The first time they had scolded him. This time for not being awake and sober while he, Apollo, had graced the statue with life._

_The flag was discarded on the floor, having been graced with the same life, but now abandoned in favour of decency. Apollo had searched for clothing and had found them. He spotted one of his breeches on the god's long legs. A plain white shirt that had been laying around now concealed an unmarked chest, a waistcoat loosely on top._

_Something was missing, he felt, aside from some firm boots._

 

The characteristic red jacket had been a gift. Apollo had appropriated it and didn't ask questions. Not about who had granted him the piece, nor why it had been granted.

Watching Apollo wear it was enough for him.

It was the recognition he craved.

It matched the red of the flag, which now had found its purpose, its symbolism; all it had needed were the words of Apollo.

 

_It had been something to behold, watching Apollo in action. It had taken him little time to adjust to the flesh, as if he had been watching him with every move, or more likely, the world outside the few windows; as if he had studied the ways of the people and had listened to their every word. And as if Apollo had then learned to apply this knowledge to his own existence, had taken their sorrows to heart._

_He had missed the first shift of muscle underneath the stone-turned-skin, but the inexperience had been evident in the more nuanced movements. It had taken him a day to get the hang of the motor skills of his body. It had taken a week to acquire his voice and learn to speak the thoughts already waiting impatiently on his tongue. And they were plenty._

_Apollo required little assistance to find his way in the world, moving with a confidence that he often envied. He would be out all day and then return in the evening to ask questions about the world and its inhabitants, and if he wasn't able to answer the god's questions Apollo would go out and find the answers himself. Some nights he found the god behind his writing desk, books piled high and extra candles ready beside the one already lit, an attentive eye on the texts._

_Apollo learned of the world and the world learned of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awful at updates. Partly because I abandoned this story somewhat, but I can at least share what I already wrote.

**Author's Note:**

> Formed an idea yet about what is to happen? Or what is happening for that matter? I would love to hear your theories.
> 
> Did I mention I have a tumblr in addition to this account? Come take a look at http://e-eliot.tumblr.com/
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the read and stay tuned for the next part.


End file.
